


Fête de la Saint-Jean

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: Rites [2]
Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Pagan Festivals, Swordfighting, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was not sure he was capable of true anger, but when she admits what she has done, the rage that burns in his eyes is enough to make her take a step back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Midsummer is almost upon them. Henry announces that the guest of honour at the feast will be baby Sebastian; formally presented to court for the first time and paraded around so that fat courtiers can give their approval. Mary can think of nothing but the unnecessary risk placed in her son's path. It is no secret that Catherine still has supporters, and she would condone any action that saw him and Bash removed from the succession. Mary knows Bash shares her concerns, but it is a long-standing tradition. There is nothing that can be done, save for Bash sticking close to the little Prince's retinue as it meanders through court. Mary wakes in cold sweats, images of blood and spilt wine clouding her mind, and she knows it will not be enough.

After a particularly troubled sleep, she stared at the empty canopy above her bed, where the monstrous stag's head had done its work upon her. If only she knew how to strike such fear in her enemies! And with a sudden rush of inspiration, the solution came to her.

Later that morning, she invaded Sebastian's chambers as he was dressing, dismissing his man-servants with a wave of her hand. When the door was firmly shut behind them, she said; "Bash, I want you to teach me that pagan prayer. What if I am ever caught in the woods alone? I should be helpless, and all for naught, when I could so easily I have learnt how to ward myself."

Sebastian poured himself a cup of water, and gave her a long look. "And this could not have waited? Until I was dressed at least?"

She did not answer. She would be stoic and calm until he consented. If she pushed him, he would become suspicious.

Bash raised a curious eyebrow at her reticence. "What are you plotting, Mary?"

Well. He would be even more suspicious.

Mary spent the better part of the morning chanting under breath, repeating the words over and over until she was sure she could recite them in her sleep. She played with baby Sebastian on a soft blanket in the grass, patting his little tummy as he squirmed and kicked his strong legs, and tried valiantly to devour her hair. That afternoon, she cut their time together short, and wandered through the gardens alone. Once she was sure of her privacy, she doubled back towards the lake, and followed the barely-visible path Bash had taken into the blood wood.

The sunlight was weak here, and tall trees cast long shadows. Mary gathered her courage and stood resolute in the clearing. Here is the spot that she introduced baby Sebastian to his ancestors; where she tied herself to this cult forever, through her future bloodline. She waited for the tell-tale rustle in the bushes, but it did not come. Impatient, she circled the grove once... twice, before calling out. "I know you're out here! Please, I would speak with you."

There was a familiar crunch of leaves underfoot then. But it sounded as if her watcher is a lone one. How odd, that she would find herself wanting a larger audience of bloodthirsty heathens.

She repeats the chant Bash taught her, the words not Latin this time, but an archaic dialect of French. Carefully, she slit open her left palm with the knife she stole from his chambers that morning; letting the blood fall in three deliberate drips.

"My son is in grave danger. I fear our enemies at court will use the Saint-Jean feast to harm him. I do not pretend to know your ways. But I swear, if you afford him your protection, I will endeavour to learn. My husband and I, we will partake in any rituals you ask. And I promise, that when Sebastian and I ascend to the throne, we will stop the persecution of your people. And we will teach our son to do the same."

She breathes deeply to contain her nerves as she waits for a response.

The voice is deep, but frail. "Return three nights hence. Bring your husband." Mary searches for the elderly man that must be close by, but he is too well-hidden, and she sees no one.

Bash is livid. She was not sure he was capable of true anger, but when she admits what she has done, the rage that burns in his eyes is enough to make her take a step back. For one absurd moment, she imagines he will strike her.

"Do you think we will be capable of keeping your promises? When they are dragged before us for judgement, what do you think the people will say when we continue to pardon them? What do you suppose the _Pope_ will do, when he learns France is a haven for heretics?"

An unfortunate page opens the door at that moment, to announce someone, but he does not get a chance. "Get out!" Bash roars, flinging the wine-jug at him, and the boy scurries out with a look of abject terror, narrowly avoiding being pummelled, as the jug hits the door with great force.

Mary is silent as her husband takes several deep breaths. When he fixes her with his gaze, she feels rooted to the spot, petrified in the face of his grim resignation.

"You have damned us all." His tone is deadly serious.

He storms away from her, slamming the door. Alone, Mary crumples to the floor, allowing the tears to come.

Mary can only manage a light meal that evening with her ladies. As the servants disperse, Bash enters her chambers, stone-faced. When they are alone, he presses close to her, holding her still with his warm hands wrapped around her elbows.

"You cannot continue to make decisions for us in this manner. I thought we had agreed to consult one another on matters of grave import."

She cringes, knowing this is true. She has wronged him. But she also knows that he she told him of her plan, he would have talked her out of it. She tells him so, and he huffs in annoyance. "That is no excuse."

Mary wants to argue that it is a very good excuse; that it is perhaps the very best excuse, but she does not get the chance. He kisses her forehead, and drops his hold on her. Alarmed, she reaches out for him as he turns to leave.

"Will you not stay, my lord?"

It has been almost three months since Sebastian's birth, and her husband has not graced her bed since her confinement began. She clutches the sleeve of his under-shirt, suddenly afraid that she had damaged their marriage irreparably.

He denies her request with a curt shake of his head, and leaves her, bereft.

Over the next three days Bash avoids her, and she catches only glimpses of him in the courtyard or the garden whilst she fusses over their son. If this is his punishment, it is an effective one. Mary is quite ready to prostrate herself at his feet, and beg his forgiveness. She did not know how accustomed she had grown to his presence; his warm smiles and impossibly green eyes following her about a room.

Night falls, and Mary dismisses her ladies early, still dressed. Sebastian comes to her dressed in his older clothes, well-worn leathers in muted browns and black. Her own cloak is a deep indigo blue. They will not draw undue attention to themselves. He looks her over, and nods in approval, before handing her his dagger. Wordlessly, they make they way through the castle, into the bitter night air.

The blood wood is rife with shadows as they approach. They stand side by side in the clearing, and a man emerges out of the darkness. In his hand is a heavy wrought-iron goblet, filled with wine. At least, Mary dearly hopes it is wine. Bash stiffens beside her, but he makes no move to draw his sword.

"You must drink. Pledge your oath to the beast. Nourish the earth. When you call upon your brethren, they shall answer."

Bash takes the proffered goblet with his left hand, and raises it out in front of him, as though he is offering a toast to the forest.

"I, Sebastian, King of Scotland and heir of France, will protect the pagan people and their customs. So do I swear." He takes a deep drink, before passing the goblet to Mary. She copies his oath, and drinks the wine. It is bitter and sharp.

Bash has slit open his palm, and Mary hands the goblet back to the forest-dweller to do the same. It is becoming a tedious action, and soon she will have a bright scar across her palm.

Sebastian addresses the forest at large, as the man with the goblet melts back into the shadows. "Protect our son. Prevent those who would do him harm from success, and you will be rewarded, in this life and the next."

Surprised, Mary tries to catch his eye. What rewards could he have in mind? But Bash avoids her gaze.

"Return here on the midsummer eve!" A voice calls out; a young voice. 

Bash's jaw clenches, and Mary's heart sinks. He turns, leading her back out of the forest with powerful strides. She hurries to keep pace with him. When they reach the castle, she expects him to return to his rooms, but instead he stalks to her chambers. Once they are safely inside, he rips at the ties of his tunic, tossing his sword aside. 

Swiftly, she follows suit; unclasping her cloak, and letting it flutter to the cold stone floor in a mound of blue velvet. Before she can begin to unlace her dress, Bash captures her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and pulling her into a deep, domineering kiss. Eagerly, she submits, digging her fingers into his hair, and he lifts her into his arms, carrying her to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Bash lets go of Mary abruptly, letting her fall onto her quilt. She pushes backwards, to give him room to join her, and scrambles to unweave the fastenings of her sleeves. Bash crawls between her legs, the muscles of his arms tensely coiled, like a predator preparing to pounce. He tears open the laces of his breeches, the other hand bruisingly tight at her waist. He drags her into another kiss, and Mary is consumed.

She barely notices as he shoves her skirts up and out of his way, light-headed as she is, unable to take in enough air between rough kisses. She feels him enter her, and mewls in surprise at the unexpected pleasure-pain. Bash and Mary's lovemaking had always included soft kisses and lover's words in soft tones. Only underclothes had ever been present before, though Bash preferred to look upon her naked skin, and caress her flesh before he plundered it. Not so tonight; tonight, Bash is the conquistador and Mary the new territory to be conquered. 

It feels illicit, to be wearing her clothing in bed like this. As though this were a nought but a hurried, sinful encounter. For a moment, they are not a married, royal couple in line to inherit the throne of France; they are Bash and Mary, two youths engaged in a passionate, unlawful encounter. It sends lusty shivers down Mary's spine. Suddenly bold, she bites Bash's lip in retaliation for a particularly hard thrust. He growls in response, and weaves his fingers into her tangled hair. He pulls her head back harshly, separating their lips and dropping biting kisses down her neck. She cannot contain a wanton moan as his stubbled chin scrapes her delicate skin, tightening her legs about his waist at the sensation, one hand pushing under his undershirt to caress the strong muscles of her husband's back.

Bash uses the hand not woven in her hair to tear at her bodice through her dress, the fabric tearing open under his rough touch, allowing her her breasts to hang free from the tattered silk. He attacks the newly revealed flesh with his lips, scraping her delicate left nipple with sharp teeth. Mary whines at the unknown sensation, a zing of pain ringing through her body. She claws her nails down his back, leaving thin streaks of red in her wake, revelling in his answering groan.

Mary digs her other hand into his scalp, pulling him from her breast and attempting to catch his lips in hers. She succeeds for only a moment, before Bash uses his superior strength to pin her to the bed. He thrusts into her with fierce abandon; channelling all his pent-up rage, his burning anger at being unable to control his wife's impulses; slamming into her so hard the solid hardwood bed groans in protest.

Their hips slam together at a fierce rate, Mary managing to roll hers so that he scrapes against the places inside her that make her shiver and whine with lusty pleasure. It is sinful, she knows, for a woman to enjoy such acts; the nuns at the convent had told her so. But all of her well-minded lessons had long been abandoned for more practical approaches to court life, and she feels no shame in delighting in her lawful husband's attentions. Still, it colours their actions with a sharp edge of danger, and it only adds to the thrill.

He reaches completion at long last, almost silently, burying his face into her hair. She pants below him, curling her fingertips into the sweaty hair at the back of his head, soothing his passion with a low hum. Abruptly, he pulls away from her, standing on unsteady feet. She looks up at him in surprise, but he avoids her gaze, swiftly tugging his breeches into place, though leaving them unlaced as his undershirt covers any indecency. He crosses to her table, taking a deep drink from the wine there, ignoring the thick red liquid that runs down his chin and colours the collar of his shirt. Mary watches with wary eyes as he gathers his sword-belt, sheathing the weapon.

He does not look upon her again until he reaches the door, where he turns and offers her a swift nod of his head- a shallow bow, before pulling open the heavy oak door and stepping into the shadows beyond.

Mary curls in on herself, bereft. Bash has never left her bedchamber after they coupled before. He had always fallen asleep in her arms, or wrapped around her like a living protective blanket. She toys with the tattered fastenings of her dress, pushing the ruined material onto the floor as it falls free, and buries herself into her covers, ignoring the scalding tears that run down her cheeks.

Morning breaks with the golden light of dawn creeping through the cracks in her shutters. Mary moans, thoroughly displeased. Her sour mood does not improve with the arrival of her servants, who clear away the tatters of her dress and neatly fold Bash's tunic, approval shining in their gaze. It is always pleasing to know their lady is not being neglected by her husband; it leads to a peaceful household, and heirs. Mary is not in need of their congratulatory looks; she is not an old woman who has managed to coax her wayward husband out of the arms of his mistress! She is young, and handsome still, and they should not be surprised to find Bash's clothing in her chambers! Their ridiculous relief only serves to vex her further, and poison her thoughts with the possibility that their fears for her are not unfounded. Most noblemen take on their first mistress when their wives are confided due to childbirth, after all.

Mary breaks her fast with vicious fingers, slamming down her water-cup with far too much force and unending the butter-dish. She slams her way through her bathing and dressing, sniping at the servants for their slowness - even though the dress is a complicated one - and generally terrorising everyone in her path all morning.

The only one who does not incur her wrath is baby Sebastian, whom she fetches from his chambers herself, even though the nursemaids usually meet her in the garden. The maids are flustered by her unexpected arrival, but Mary ignores them in favour of cradling her son, carrying him outside into the courtyard herself, a trail of harried servants in her wake.

There is a melee that afternoon: the first celebratory event marking the midsummer's arrival. Mary sits at her place of honour beside the king and queen, bouncing Sebastian on her knee. Bash and Francis are both among the competitors, and head the procession of acknowledgement and deference to the king. After bowing to his parents, Bash walks to Mary, and bows to her.

"Do I carry your favour, dear wife?" He asks, pale green eyes glittering in the bright sunlight.

Mary blushes as she feels curious gazes upon her from those seated closest to her. That is not the proper way of requesting favour, especially from one's wife. She returns his bow, passing Sebastian into the arms of attendant nurse, and raises to her feet. Obediently, Mary tugs the purple lace ribbon from her sleeve and carefully leans across the barrier to tie it carefully on the pauldron of Bash's sword arm. As she moves back, he captures her fingertips with his hand, the rough texture of his gauntlet warm against her soft skin. 

He draws her down slowly, tilting his face up for a kiss, and she acquiesces, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as her eyes flutter closed. His kiss is smooth, close-mouthed and chaste. Mary's hands settle on the cold metal over his shoulders, whilst his wrap around her waist, steadying her precarious balance upon her tip-toes. For a moment, they are suspended in their own private world, and as Bash pulls away, Mary releases him with a reluctant sigh. He gently settles her back onto her feet, before taking his proper place on the lawn.

The assembled knights form a rough square, tugging on helmets and pulling down visors. There is a rumble of surprise when Francis hefts his shield into the air to attach it to his arm. Gone is the proud crest of Valois; royal blue with three golden Fleur-di-Lis, which Sebastian now bore. It had been replaced by five red balls in orle gules on a bright yellow background - the Medici crest, edged by a thick red boarder, same as Sebastian's; the symbol of royal birth. The difference was, a thick black line diagonally cut through all the bright colours of Francis' shield, running from the bottom left to the top right corner. The bend sinister... the symbol of a bastard. Mary's breath caught in her throat at the sight of it, unexpected tears springing to her eyes. She knew the consequences of her actions when she set out on this course. It was foolish of her to be shocked by the results now.

But it seemed she was not the only one, as the whispering continued. The king pointedly looked away, towards the other end of the field, as though he could not bear face the truth of his decisions in the cold light of day. It had been much easier to pretend that everyone had been overjoyed by Mary's stubborn ultimatum when Francis was not at court, his pain on display for all and sundry to gawk at. Mary felt unaccountably ashamed of herself, especially after her so public display with Bash. It must have been bitter salt in Francis' wounds, to see them so contented, knowing the public humiliation that he was about to endure.

She has no more time to ponder his downfall and her part in it; the horn is blown and ruckus begins. Mary clutches Sebastian tightly. She has never been fond of the melee; too much noise and action all at once. The eye does not know where to settle, and so it roams, and a great deal of bloodshed that could have been ignored is captured and held in the mind, to be revisited in nightmares. The clang of sword upon armour is brash and unceasing; the sunlight flashes silver off the polished finery, highlighting the duller taint of the less fortunate knights.

After the first hour or so of confusion, almost half of the contenders have limped off or been dragged from the field by the braver squires. Bash and Francis are both still fighting, though only just. From what Mary can tell by the glimpses she gets of the shields still attached to duelling men, most of the younger knights have been bested. The sheer amount of possible opponents means that the most experienced knights have the greatest advantage; those who have actually fought in campaigns, surrounded by enemies, are not frighted by boys who have only just grown into their armour.

Soon after she notices his position,  Francis is thrown to the ground. He had been fighting a knight with a purple shield marred by a bright red gusset sanguine sinister on the right-hand side. At the loss of his sword, Francis yields and stumbles from the blood stained grass. Mary knows he will be cross at losing to a drunk.

Mary's eyes naturally roam to her husband; drawn in by his familiar armour, she watches as he smashes one opponent and then another, tirelessly. Her blood begins to warm, and she shifts in her seat. She had not thought herself the kind of woman whose head was turned by violence and bloodlust, but clearly she had been deceiving herself. Watching Bash earn his nickname, striking his current opponent across the arm with the flat of his sword so hard that the poor man looses his footing, Mary can feel the flush creep down her face and bosom. And her dark passion wars with pride; she is proud to be the only woman to lay claim to this brave knight that she sees plough through his opponents upon this mock battlefield.

But not even Bash's stamina is unceasing, and a knight she believes to be Sir Amaury Lamourex knocks him out of the contest, brandishing his red and white shield triumphantly, before plunging back into the fray. Bash is limping as disappears into his tent and Mary's heart clenches. She does not like to think of him in pain.

She passes her baby son, who has grown fussy at all the noise, back to his nurse and dismisses the woman, before stepping down from the stands herself. She does not follow the nurse up the castle; instead she makes her way through the assembled crowd, across the other side of the field to the tents. No one attempts to stop her as she ducks into Bash's tent. She is just in time to see him settle into his bath with bone-deep fatigue. His squire has dutifully removed all his armour and was gathering the pieces to hang them on the dummy to be polished. He turned and saw Mary, dropping a vambrace in shock.

"M-my lady," the squire stammered, and Bash's eyes flew open in surprise. When he saw it was only Mary, his forehead smoothed into a relaxed state once more. Clearly the steaming water was working wonders on his aching muscles.

The squire scurried about, picking up the last of Bash's clothing and armour, whilst Mary crossed the tent to where Bash was partially submerged. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, concerned at the flush of his skin. Surely he should not be so warm? For the second time that day, Bash caught her fingers with his own, bringing her hand to his lips to press a kiss into her palm. Mary smiled down at him, all her ire about the night before long-forgotten.

They enjoyed a moment just looking at one another, Bash running his eyes across her worried expression, and Mary drinking in her valiant husband. Then they were interrupted by the squire clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Forgive me, my lady," The mousy-haired boy said, waving a scrubbing cloth half-heartedly, blushing under the combined attention of two powerful royals. Mary rose out of her crouched position at Bash's side, swiftly approaching the squire, who paled at her proximity. She took the cloth from his hand with a firm tug, dismissal written in her every movement. The boy bowed, quickly hurrying from the tent.

Then they were alone, and Mary smiled, pulling up her sleeves and dipping the cloth in the hot soapy water. She ran the damp rag across her husband's chest and he sighed, his eyes falling shut. With smooth, continuous motions, Mary let the hot water trickle across Bash's skin, sweeping away the sweat and dirt. She slid her hand down each of his arms, before gently coaxing him forwards to clean his back. He let out a satisfied moan as she kneaded the hot cloth into his tense muscles, working hard to rub the skin clean.

Mary placed the cloth on the table, reaching for the fresh-water jug to wash his hair. She carefully rubbed the soap into his sweat-soaked crown, tilting his head back before pouring the water through his hair. Then she replaced the jug and set about rubbing through his wet hair with her fingers. The manual labour reminded her of when she had been at the convent. Although her duties had been light, they had still expected her to participate, and thus Mary possessed many practical skills that other queens did not. 

Once his scalp was thoroughly rubbed, she retrieved the scrubbing cloth again, but Bash captured her with his wet hands, drawing her close.

"You are good to me," he said, "I am sorry I treated you ill."

His tone was too apologetic for Mary's liking and she shook her head, her thin braids bouncing against her neck. "Do not apologise. You had every right to be angry."

Bash sighed and dropped his arms back into the water as she applied the cloth to his neck, scouring a particularly stubborn smudge of dirt. Mary traced the drips of water squeezed from the cloth as they dribbled lazily down Bash's defined chest with her eyes, before catching hold of herself. She returned her gaze to his face, and found Bash watching her knowingly. Her breath caught as a bright flush spread across her cheeks. 

Unmindful of her embarrassment, Bash caught hold of her chin, drawing her into a deep kiss. Mary dropped the cloth into the soapy suds, and forgot the world.

The next day was midsummer eve, and all through the day Mary was plagued with worry about what the night held in store for them. She was forced to attend the archery contest, and obliged to clap at all the right moments. But at the close of it she could not tell you who won, she was so distracted. When they ventured onto the well-worn path into the blood wood that night, she was completely sure they would be sacrificed to some heathen god and leave poor Sebastian an orphan. She is reminded of the despair she felt at Eilidh's death, and pushes the grief that rises in her firmly away. She cannot afford to be distracted right now.

For the first time, the woods are alive with noise. The usual clearing is empty, but chanting voices and clapping can be clearly heard from yonder trees, and with no small trepidation, Mary and Bash head towards the source.

Mary did not know what to expect, but heathens warmly dressed in rough-hewn cloaks, drinking from wineskins and dancing a quadrille was not it. There is a coalpit burning merrily in the centre, and every so often a couple breaks away from the main steps to leap over it, clasping one another's hands tightly. The heathens are laughing merrily, and now that she can hear clearly, they are not chanting some awful prayer to their beast, but singing a lilting French song in lieu of actual instruments. There is also a man with a small drum keeping time, surrounded by children too young to join in with the dance, all clapping along with the beat.

A heathen notices their arrival, and immediately presses a wineskin into Mary's hand, gracing her with a gap-toothed grin. Mary takes a quick drink before passing it to Bash; and once they have handed it back, the old man pushes them towards the spinning bodies. Despite her reluctance to be there, it only takes a moment for Mary to slip into the appropriate steps, spinning away from Bash and then allowing him to capture her hands in his and twirl, holding her tightly to his chest. They join the whirling, swirling bodies, and soon loose their worries in the rhythm of the dance; the song changes and more wineskins are pressed into their fingers.

A bizarre dizziness clouds Mary for a moment, and she stumbles slightly before laughing at the feel of it. Bash kisses her smiling lips and then tosses her in the air in time with the new dance. Moss is squashed underfoot as the procession tramples through the undergrowth, swelling with an influx of new dancers arriving from the south. Mary's fears melt away as her senses become fuzzy, and she allows Bash to pull her towards the coalpit.

They leap across it together and Mary shrieks as the fire licks her feet in her thin shoes. As they are pulled back into the wriggling heaving bodies, she thinks how very is exhilarating to be so alive.

She wakes very early hours of the morning, shivering with cold. Her head pounds and her whole body feels sluggish. Bash is warm against her back, and she shifts, dimly registering that her bed is intolerably hard. A twig snaps beneath her and Mary shoots up, taking in the scene around her. The clearing is freezing in the pre-dawn light, the coalpit glowing faintly in the distance. The pagans are strewn about, curled up on the ground in couples or small groups. Mortified, Mary turns to Bash and wakes him with a rough shake.

They stagger back to the civilised world on unsteady feet, narrowly avoiding the guards, falling into Bash's closer chambers and collapsing in a heap on his bed.

They wake late; so late in fact, that desperate servants have to coax them in their outfits so that they are not late for the Saint-Jean celebrations. Mary has a dance to perform with the other ladies of the court- thankfully, the steps are not complicated. The ladies are arranged in a circles, holding hands, and dance towards the centre in alternate groupings to a pretty tune primarily played on the lute and fiddle.

Afterwards, there is much clapping and a light afternoon tea of baguettes, sweetmeats, French pastries and other little delicacies Mary has no name for. They taste delicious just the same.

They retire to their chambers as the men go for a short hunt; symbolic really, as the court is far to large accommodate every eligible nobleman and the numbers would scare off the game anyway. Still, their kills are added to the feast preparations.

The feast itself is decadent; hundreds of dishes spread across the tables, though of course the choice cuts and best desserts go to the high table. Looking across the hall at the varying levels of contentment and privilege, Mary feels a sudden strange twinge of nostalgia for the night before, dancing like a heathen in the wood. The pagans had not cared that the King and Queen of Scotland had invaded their celebrations; they had treated them just the same, and they had been expected to partake in the same customs. As though they were all equals. Shaking off the radical thought she turns to Bash, squeezing his hand and rejoicing in the bright smile she receives in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my knowledge of knights, shields, armour etc is based on British/English customs (though I did look up the appropriate designs for the houses/families mentioned). So if it doesn't translate perfectly to French culture... apologies.


End file.
